Drifted Away
by Radioheaded
Summary: House and Wilson get a dog. Warning: Major character death.


When House brings home a dog, you don't question it. It's a mix, German Sheppard and something else you can't quite remember. One ear flops over, giving the animal a pensive look. When she cocks her head it's like she's actually listening; watching with those sweet brown eyes that melt you, even though you've never really liked dogs.

You think that the dog takes his mind off of life, off of pain. And it does, though he won't admit to it. When he thinks you're not looking he strokes her nose, pets her ears. She curls up at his feet, even when she becomes too big to fit in between the couch and the table. He laughs as she tries to squeeze into the narrow space, finally slapping the leather underneath him and allowing her to fall into sleepy contentment beside him on the couch.

He names her Artemis, and you chuckle. It's a fitting name for any pet of House's, but the dog itself is far too sweet to be fierce. She grows on you, follows you as you move from room to room, obliging to be shut out of the bedroom (but barking when the moans get especially loud).

You wake now to a soft lick on your palm, telling you Artemis has replaced House in your bed. When she knows you're getting up, she scrambles into the living room where he plays a soft sonata. She stays near House, yipping as the notes grow loud then soft under his fingers.

When House begins to lose weight, you don't take it as a sign that something's wrong. You cook more, watch him eat more (then later hear it flood back up his throat, into the toilet as he gasps quietly and hopes you don't hear. When you begin to lose weight from worry, he cracks jokes as you, calling you his anorexic teenager. You smile, but your eyes examine him. His skin is as pale as paper, thin and stretched out over his joints. He faints once, then twice at work, then finally hands in his resignation. You take a leave of absence, and for awhile it's normal.

Then he starts sleeping more and for longer periods of time; when he wakes he's groggy, hazy. His mind fogs, but you're there for him. You jog his memory, tell him stories of the man he used to be, hoping for a glimmer of the personality that drove you crazy while it was there and now makes you sick as you watch it evaporate. Artemis stays even closer to him now, guarding him from the a hazy cold that moves slowly, taking its time. Drawing out House's humiliation. He loses the ability to form words, but his eyes still communicate well enough. He directs you with his fingers curled in Artemis's sleek coat, stroking the fur softly while she licks at his jeans.

Then one morning you try to get him up for his oatmeal, the only thing he likes anymore, and he won't stir. His palms are cold, lifeless. You try to leave the room but Artemis won't let you; she grips your shirt and moves you back to him. She doesn't stop until you sit on the bed, so close to him that you can smell the remnants of the aftershave you carefully rubbed into the crevice behind his ear. Artemis is on the bed with you now and she sighs loudly, breaking the quiet. You look closer at House and see his hand is reaching out the bedside drawer so you get up and open it. The wood creaks slightly, opening to show an empty space, save for a crisp white envelope marked 'Wilson.'

You open it and see that it's a letter.

Wilson,

It doesn't matter if I'm not dead by the time you find this letter. I'm not myself anymore, I'm not clear. Thanks for taking care of me for so long; I know it can't have been easy. Call my lawyer so he can give you a copy of the lease to sign. Everything in the apartment is yours. Take care of Artemis; she'll take care of you.

Goodbye, Wilson.

P.S.---If you let my mom bury me in some horrendous suit, I will be back to haunt you.

You drop the letter, but can't look away as it drifts to the floor. It lays there, stark white against the golden grain of the wood below. Your eyes flick up the page, then stop on the date. December first, 2006.

The day House brought Artemis home.

You get up and dial a number, the first one that comes to your mind. When there's an answer, two words slip into the air.

"He's gone."


End file.
